


just don’t say you love me

by slimandalittlebitfoxy



Series: e is for everything [1]
Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: And lots of love between the Losers, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort/Angst, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier-centric, Fix-It, IT Chapter Two Spoilers, M/M, Movie: IT Chapter Two (2019), Or not, Platonic Cuddling, Reddie, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie is an emotional mess, Swearing, The Losers are Grown-Ups, lots and lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 15:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20762636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slimandalittlebitfoxy/pseuds/slimandalittlebitfoxy
Summary: Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier never misses an opportunity to run his mouth, but will he be able to say what he needs to say when he gets a second chance?





	just don’t say you love me

**Author's Note:**

> First Reddie fic, god I love these two.

_I love it baby, when you speak too loud_  
_about somebody else when they're around._  
_I love it baby, when you stay the night_  
_and we stay up until a quarter past five._

_ _ __ _ _

_Just don't say,_  
_just don't say,_  
_just don't say you love me,_  
_'cause I won't say it back._  
_Just don't say,_  
_just don't say,_  
_just don't say you love me,_  
_'cause I don't deserve that._

_ _ __ _ _

_ __ _

__

__

-_Daisy_, Mike Waters

Richie Tozier eyed the once-forgotten carving on the railing of the Kissing Bridge. He was thirteen again—peering out over the Kunduskeag through his too-thick glasses, unspeakable fear giving way to acceptance, heart heavy with words he never had and never would say. He looked out over the bridge. Time hadn’t touched the river, unlike it had the kids that had trotted along its edge for decades, markers and pocketknives in hand, spelling out words of love and hate and everything in between. Some were worn away, some were fresh. Some were scribbled and scratched over others, new stories telling themselves over the old.

_LOVE WINS_, said one. _FAGS BURN_, said another.

“Same old Derry,” Richie said. The river drowned out his words with its bubbling agreement.

He looked back down at his own carving—his confession. His chest clenched as he flipped his pocket knife out. As he traced over the weather-worn lines of the ‘R’, the anger washed over him. The anger he felt when he was thirteen, and the anger he felt now. The existential anguish of living in a world where he couldn’t have what he wanted most tore at his insides. He traced the ‘+’. His mind wandered to that place of relief, when triumph chewed up and spat out the Losers’ sense of fear. It wandered through Eddie’s bedroom window, like he had on many summer afternoons when they were kids—comic books spread across their small laps, rock n’ roll humming too softly in the background—it couldn’t play too loud, or Mrs. K would burst in, large and flushed, and wring both of their necks, wailing about the dangers of that _trash_ harming Eddie’s delicate prefrontal development. He paused before he began to drag his knife across the top of the ‘E’. ‘E’ is the most common word in the English language, Richie thought. ‘E’ could mean anything—_everything_. To him, in a way, it did—and for over two decades of his life, he couldn’t remember why. He finished off the letter. He could still feel the faintly beating heart of the Eater of Worlds beneath his fingertips, the shriveled body of the once fearsome beast that had terrorized not just them, but the people of Derry, for centuries, lying, dying, at their feet. But Eddie wasn’t there—Eddie was bleeding out as they destroyed the monster, and would be dead by the time they tried to bring him the news. Eddie was dead with a gaping hole in his chest, his body crushed and rotting underneath the remains of 29 Neibolt Street, less than a hundred feet from the remains of the personification of all of their adolescent fear.

He finished the letter with one last slash of his knife. He took a step back, looking out over the Kenduskeag again. He vaguely noticed the tears drying on his cheeks in the wind that was already chilling for the coming autumn. He could almost hear Eddie still. _Hey! Richie!_

The cloudy, grey sky then gave way to a light so bright Richie brought an arm up to shield his eyes. His stomach sank like he was on a roller coaster, like he was..._falling?_ The wind was knocked out of him as he hit the ground, rocks digging into his back. Everything went dark. He tried to blink it away, but it remained. He could just barely make out that Eddie was on top of him. _Eddie? What the ever-living fuck—_

There was a look of shocked revelation in Eddie’s eyes. “I—I think I got it man—I did it—I think I killed it for re—“

Before Eddie could finish, Richie rolled them over, but not before Pennywise’s clawed leg dragged down Eddie’s side, tearing away the cloth there. But it wasn’t through his chest. Not this time. Eddie screamed.

“No you fucking DIDN’T, jackass!” Richie sobbed, too shocked, confused, and relieved for true tears to fall. But the work wasn’t done. Bev’s panicked cry was still ringing in his ears. Eddie was staring down at his side. Richie was still pinning him to the ground. Eddie looked back up at him.

“I...I guess not,” he stuttered out. “How did you—“

“Shut the fuck up,” Richie said, and realized he was cupping Eddie’s very-alive face. He jerked his hand away and scrambled off of him. “Did It get you? Can you stand?”

“I—I don’t think it got me,” he touched a hand to his side and pulled it away. No blood. Just a torn shirt. Richie wanted to make a joke but couldn’t shake the image of Eddie coughing the blood up, the look of utter helplessness clouding his eyes. _Rich..._ Richie staggered to his feet and offered a hand. The alternate reality, the one he literally just fucking _lived_ through, was playing inside his head in real-time. He saw Eddie choking, sputtering. Bev’s scream. The losers scrambling around their fallen friend. The blood, the fucking blood spattered on his glasses. And Eddie _getting off a good one_, as they used to say. _I fucked your mother._ Richie let out a hysterical laugh. He’d have to tell him about that one later, if they ever got out of this goddamn mess.

“What the fuck are you laughing about?” Eddie asked, his eyebrows knit together incredulously. Richie just shook his head, the hysterical giggles bottoming out under the grim reality of their situation. Eddie looked around at all the Losers, who’d since joined them. Richie could feel Beverly looking at him—knowing. Eddie continued, jumping to his feet and staring past them, at the roaring creature. “As one of the shittiest comedians I’ve ever known once said, let’s kill this fucking clown.”

And so they did. Richie and Eddie stood side by side as they squeezed the life out of the monster that both took away and gave them everything they’d ever known. As the Losers ran from It’s crumbling nest and the Deadlights gave way to complete darkness, Richie glanced over his shoulder for just a second. _Rest in peace, you sloppy bitch._

**********

They careened out of house as it fell into itself. Eddie stopped and stared at the pit where the house had stood second earlier. He examined the tear in his shirt. “This isn’t right.” Richie stood at his side, watching the rubble churn in the earth. He knew what he meant. _Eddie should be down there._

“I should be dead. I feel it.” He looked at the others, eyes lingering on Richie. Their expressions...were off. Richie knew his own was, too. “You all feel it. I should be fucking _dead_, I should be under Neibolt right now, but I’m not!” It came out in a frustrated, breathless flurry. He looked at Richie. “Somehow, It—It_knew_ we would come back. It has had the power to influence our lives since that first summer—even when we weren’t in Derry. It knew It was going to kill me. It might not have known anything else, but It knew _that_. How the fuck am I not dead?”

Richie felt panic rising up in his chest. He was right. There had always been some kind of intangible presence in their lives, and somehow, they always knew. They knew the first time, before they fought It, that their circle wasn’t complete until Mike arrived and closed it. It made them forget—but then they remembered. They could feel things together, and they could certainly feel that Eddie being here, alive—it wasn’t supposed to happen. Richie had seen something in the Deadlights, something that It didn’t expect him to be able to use. It fed off fear, and perhaps Richie’s most deeply-seated adult fear, since he’d come back to Derry, at least, was that he’d never get the chance to—hell, Richie didn’t even know what the chance was he wanted to take; before, at least. Eddie _should_ be dead, he _was_ dead. Richie saw it, Richie _lived_ it. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to talk about it, not yet, so he did the only thing he knew how to do—he made a joke about Eddie’s mom with a stupid accent. “It’d be rude to ask for your mother’s hand in marriage without your blessing, my boy!” He pinched at Eddie’s uninjured cheek. The rest of the Losers let out some nervous laughter laced with relief. Eddie’s mother was dead, but their sense of humor wasn’t. And neither was Eddie. Eddie just snorted, slapping his hand away as he shook his head. “Beep beep, motherfucker.”

This got the whole crew roaring with laughter, except Richie. “What did I miss?”

Through the giggles, Bev managed—“He—he threw that fence post—and he _screamed_ ‘beep beep motherfucker’ at that fucking monster!”

Richie raised his eyebrows at Eddie, and he smiled guiltily. “I did.”

This set them all running off on another howling fit of laughter. And then they did what they always did—they went to the quarry to wash away the grime, both physically and mentally, though Eddie would disagree that it did _nothing_ to cleanse the former. He audibly asserted so as everyone started shedding socks and shoes and hopped in the water. Richie wrestled him to the ground and took his sneakers off for him, then shoved him in. They were thirteen again, and everything felt right. That feeling—that something was _off_, was already fading away. That timeline was dying as every passing second drew them away from that deciding moment, and Richie would give it the bird on the way out.

Richie perched himself on a rock as Eddie continued to complain about the _absolutely unsanitary_ condition of the water, and everyone was laughing, and he was laughing, and then he was crying—sobbing. He’d already lived this moment, and when he did, they were making jokes about what Eddie would say, instead of Eddie saying them himself. But now—Eddie was here. Eddie was talking about how _fucking disgusting_ it was and Richie couldn’t handle it. He was too happy, too scared, too grateful, and too overwhelmed by the fact that if he’d been a split second late after seeing everything he saw in the Deadlights then there would be no Eddie anyway. Everyone paused to look at him. They closed in and wrapped their arms around him.

“Wanna talk about it?” Bev murmured. She knew. She’d seen the Deadlights—she’d seen them all die. Richie could barely handle seeing the loss of one of them—Bev was a goddamn badass, and he’d be sure to tell her. When he was ready to talk about it.

He shook his head quickly. “I’m just—we did it. And we didn’t...we didn’t lose...” He paused and looked at their faces, their eyes full of concern and understanding. His gaze lingered on Eddie a little longer. Richie was never one to talk like he was talking then, but the words had to come out somehow. “Everyone that went in came out, that’s all. And it...would have been so easy for us to not have.”

Eddie tilted his head, his brows knit together. _We’ll talk later._ Richie could almost hear him say it.

“We’re all here,” Ben said, flashing his startlingly new but comfortingly familiar smile. Then, it fell a bit. “Except Stan.”

Everyone quieted down, an uninstructed moment of silence falling between them.

“I hope he knows we did it. Wherever he is,” Mike said.

Everyone nodded. Richie jumped back in the water and send a wave in Eddie’s direction. He cried out in disgust, spitting out what landed in his mouth. Then, like when they were kids, minus Stan, their uproarious giggles joined the sound of them splashing the shit out of each other.

**********

Back at the Derry Townhouse, Bev was the first to crack a bottle. She poured a heavy-handed shot for each of them of some very fine whiskey. They passed the glasses around and Bill raised his first. “To Stan. Thank you for watching out for the spiders in our hair. Bet you would have brought one hell of a shower cap to take down the one we just faced.”

“To Stan,” everyone parroted as they downed their glasses. Eddie started sputtering after his shot. Richie patted him on the back and Eddie damn near audibly rolled his eyes once he finished coughing.

Bev refilled their glasses then cozied in next to Ben on the armchair. _Good for him,_ Richie thought, fondly remembering the once-chubby kid’s quiet pining—uncomfortably remembering his own, though his had been quite a bit louder, more physical, and thinly shrouded under the guise of a joke. Maybe that’s all it was, at one point. His thoughts wandered to the Kissing Bridge. He’d go there tomorrow, and hope against hope that this wasn’t another fucked up Deadlights vision he’d be rudely awoken from as he gazed absently at the ripples in the Kenduskeag. Maybe he’d bring Eddie. Probably not—Richie talked a lot of shit, but he wasn’t even nearly the bravest of the Losers.

Bill wandered over to where Richie was sitting, and leaned over the back of the sofa to speak, the side opposite of where Eddie was seated. Eddie was talking to Mike about something Richie hadn’t been able to focus on. “W-Whatever you s-saw—it’s not real. It n-never happened, and it n-never will. You d-did good, Trashmouth.”

Richie forced a smile. “You felt it, though.”

“Yeah,” Bill shrugged, and clapped him on the shoulder. “But I d-don’t anymore—you sh-shouldn’t, either.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Big Bill,” Richie smiled in earnest, this time. If Big Bill Denbrough said something, that’s the way it was. It had always been that way.  
“Now, you b-better start cracking some jokes, or the p-party’s over.”

“As long as you don’t write the ending, I’m sure it’ll be a good one,” Richie’s familiar shit-eating grin fell into place.

“Beep beep,” Bill said, matching Richie’s grin, and went back to chat with Ben and Bev.

“So, when’s the wedding?” Richie proclaimed, marching over to the armchair where the new couple sat, throwing his arms around the two of them. “Lawdy, lawdy, what a _handsome_ couple you two make—mostly Haystack here, yessiree!” He planted a dramatic kiss on Ben’s cheek. “The friend zone can be conquered, lady and gents! Let’s have a toast!”

“I’ll drink to that, even if it was an incredibly sexist way to put it, you pig,” she feigned a frown as Richie refilled her glass with a flourish. We waggled his eyebrows and her disapproving facade broke; Richie always knew how to make her laugh. He knew how to make all of them laugh—they were the best friends he ever had, and would ever have. He moved around the room, refilling Eddie’s, then his own, last. He plopped back down next to Eddie, and looked at him for a long moment. It took Eddie a minute to notice.

“What, weirdo?” He said, smelling the whiskey in his glass and wrinkling his nose. Richie noticed that he never had grown out of this freckles.

“You’re not supposed to sniff it like that, dipshit,” Richie responded, taking a sip of his own drink. “It’s not wine. You smell it above the glass, and hold it on your palette for a few seconds, so you can really experience the complex flavor—“ Richie’s jaw just about dropped as Eddie swallowed the contents of his glass. “Or that.”

Eddie didn’t cough this time—just gave a small snort and blinked a few times. “I usually do wine, if anything.”

Richie shrugged, and finished off his own drink. “Waste of good whiskey.”

“I almost died—I can do whatever the fuck I want, and you can’t say shit,” Eddie smirked. Mike poured him another shot, and Richie motioned for another as well.

“Technically, we all almost did, genius,” Richie said, stretching his legs out over Eddie’s lap, painfully reminiscent of the both of them crowding themselves in the hammock in the clubhouse once upon a time. Eddie eyed Richie’s shoes with disdain, as if his corneas were black lights and he could see every germ.

Everyone’s cheeks were beginning to get flushed, their nerves soothed by the warm burn of the whiskey, and the fact that they’d quite literally killed the epitome of fear. The air in Derry felt different. Bill was looking at the staircase pensively—remembering the boy’s skateboard, Richie was sure. Richie went to stand next to him.

“I hope he was the last,” Bill said.

Richie put his arm around his old friend. “He was, Bill. You can feel it, can’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said. He gave a long-suffering sigh. “Yeah, I d-do. Or d-don’t—I guess. I d-don’t feel It anymore. It’s gone for good.”

“It wasn’t your fault, you know. Anymore than...than Georgie was,” Richie said, his throat suddenly feeling full. “And it’s because of all of us that Pennywise is worm food, or whatever kind of fucked up subterranean creature feasts on the corpses of ancient sewer aliens. It’s because of you most of all.”

Bill smiled. A sad, grownup smile. Bill had always smiled like that, Richie thinks. Even when they were kids. “Thanks, Rich.”

Ben and Bev stood, then. “I think it’s time we try to get some rest.”

“Meesa thinkin’ you be doing more than—“ Richie’s horrific Jar-Jar Binks impression was cut off by a dusty throw pillow to the face, thrown by none other than Eddie Kasbrak. One last fit of laughter overcame the group before Ben and Bev gave hugs all around. Bev held Richie a little longer than anyone else.

“Let me know if you need to talk. I know what you’ve been through. Get some rest,” Bev said in a voice just above a whisper. She released him from the hug and glanced back over her shoulder, at Eddie. “And don’t spend the night alone, if you can help it.” She smiled, and Richie loved her. Beverly Marsh was the Losers’ heart—she always had been.

Ben and Bev trekked upstairs, and Mike said his goodnight. He was going to head back to his loft in the library.

“Be safe,” Bill said, giving him a tight hug.

“I think we are,” he replied. Mike had been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and Richie noticed he looked a couple years younger already. “Love you, Big Bill.”

“Love you too, man.” Richie admired the affection that came so easily between them all. He’d never felt anything like it—and he hoped he’d never forget it again.

Mike headed out after giving a big hug to both he and Eddie. The three remaining men headed upstairs. Bill’s room was on the second floor, and Richie and Eddie’s were both on the third. He embraced them both, and they exchanged ‘good nights’, with promise of breakfast in the morning.

Then, there were two. Richie’s door was at the top of the stairs. Eddie’s was down the hall. “Well, well, well, lookie here,” Richie chattered, then winked, offering him a cheek. “Am I gonna get a kiss goodnight?”

“In your dreams, Trashmouth,” Eddie yawned, and pulled him in for a hug. Richie’s heart ached somewhere he couldn’t quite place. Richie’s hand found the back of Eddie’s head and he held him for a bit longer than a usual hug between friends should last. He felt his chest start to clench again—like it did when they were at the quarry. Like something was ripped from it, replaced, and there was a primal fear that it would be taken away again.

Eddie pulled back, a little, his arms still around Richie, and his dark brows were knitted together again. The dimly lit hallway did nothing to define his features, but he was radiating concern. “Hey, Rich. What is it?”

Richie’s mouth ran off before he had the chance to stop it. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

A pause fell between them and Eddie dropped his arms. Richie’s mouth went off again. “Sorry, no, stupid. We killed the literal fucking monster under our beds, and there’s nothing to be afraid of. Uh, just—just forget it, Eds.”

“Don’t. Call. Me. Eds,” Eddie enunciated carefully, but Richie could hear the smile.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” Richie rambled, then smirked. “I forgot you prefer Eddie Spaghetti. Forget it, Spaghetti Man. I don’t need you.”

“Yes, you do,” his toned turned serious. It made Richie’s insides squirm. “And it’s okay—it’s okay to need someone. You don’t have to talk about it, either. I think—I need you, too. For tonight.”

“Yeah. For tonight,” Richie said, and he felt his voice almost break. If he did hear it, Eddie pretended not to. Richie fumbled his door open while Eddie went to his room to grab his toiletries and pajamas.

“So, can I take the bed, or are you going to make me sleep on the floor?” Eddie said upon his return, a duffel bag over his shoulder.

“There’s room enough for two,” Richie said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Like the good old days!” He thought back to decades ago, when they’d dozed off on each other’s beds together; not touching, comic books and snacks discarded, sleeping bag forgotten.

“Fucking idiot,” Eddie said, moving to the bathroom to change. He flopped down onto the bed in a loose T-shirt and sweatpants when he was done, and Richie went to change.

Richie brushed his teeth aggressively. They’d all showered and changed after the quarry, but he knew it’d be weeks before he really felt _clean_. Maybe he never would.

Eddie seemed to already be asleep by the time Richie came back out and got settled into the bed. He’d pulled the covers over himself and his breathing was steady. Richie noticed he’d changed the bandage on his cheek. He was snoring lightly, his mouth slightly agape. He looked younger, just like Mike. Maybe they all did, a little. He sure felt a spring in his step he hadn’t before. They had raced the devil and won. Richie slipped underneath the covers with him and flipped off the bedside light. He placed his cracked glasses on the side table and made a mental note to go see the optometrist in town in the morning. As he settled in, he realized how much easier it had been to share a bed when they were little—now, they took up too much space. Or just enough. Eddie murmured something Richie didn’t catch, and to Richie’s abject horror, rolled over and wrapped his arms around his middle.

Horror turned into comfort, comfort turned into peace, and peace turned into a much-needed, mind-healing, dreamless slumber.

**********

Eddie woke up first. He was _spooning_ Richie. “Fuck,” he muttered rolling onto his back. The shades were drawn but the light of early morning was still filtering in through the window. The sun was shining, yet he could already feel the chill of autumn Maine mornings working its way into the room. He was silently grateful for the warmth Richie provided.

Richie groaned, rolling onto his back, too. His eyes were still closed, and he drew an arm over his face. His hand lightly touched Eddie’s shoulder. “Five more minutes.”

Eddie grabbed his phone and saw that Ben, Bill, and Mike had already sent a few texts to the group chat. They were planning on meeting for breakfast—well, brunch, now—as soon as they heard from everyone. Eddie tapped out a response without thinking:

_We’re up. Give us twenty._

Bev sent the little emoji with a hand on its chin, questioning him with a _hmm_ expression.

He slapped a hand to his face. Now they knew he and Richie had spent the night together. There was nothing wrong with that, though—it was just like old times, right? But they’d never woken up spooning before. How did Eddie feel about that?

His heart jumped to his throat as he felt Richie snake his arms around him. He tucked his chin into Eddie’s shoulder, and whispered, “Thanks.”

Eddie lingered for a moment, then shied away from his grip and slipped out of bed. “Next time, you’ll have to buy me dinner first.”

“Next time?” Richie scoffed, sitting up and putting his glasses on. “Why the fuck would I ever do that again? For a scrawny little shit, you’re still a bed hog _and_ you snore.”

“It’s a _condition_, jackass!” Eddie grabbed a pillow and attempted to smother him. Richie let him. When he pulled the pillow away, his jaw was slack—Eddie froze, and then they were back in the cave, Richie caught in the Deadlights, and Eddie’s panic started to rise.

Richie cracked one of his eyes, and immediately closed his mouth and scrambled out of the bed. “Hey, hey no—what is it?”

Eddie drew in a shaky breath. He didn’t need his inhaler—no fucking way did he need it, _it’s a gazebo_. He remembered now. Eddie knew he was looking at him the way Richie had looked at him the whole night before. Richie had almost lost Eddie—but Eddie had almost lost Richie, too. “Just—dont’ make that face again. It makes you look like a dumbass.”

“I might be dumb, but I bet it’s the finest ass you ever saw,” Richie turned and struck a pose. Eddie tried to smile but he must have still had a shit expression on his face because Richie drew him into a hug, then. “Hey—we’re here. We’re both here, and we’re about to get breakfast with the rest of the gang, and we don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

Eddie nodded as Richie drew back. “Brush your teeth, you smell like a rotting animal.”

Richie drew him into a headlock and breathed straight into his face.

“_Fuck_ you, Trashmouth!” He struggled under Richie’s shockingly strong bicep.

“Oh, I’m counting on it, Eds,” Richie shot back, releasing him and heading to the bathroom, leaving Eddie wondering if a serious word ever left his mouth.

**********

“I’m taking a flight home, tomorrow,” Bill said. “If I don’t get that ending revised, the producer’s damn near ready to blacklist me. And—Audra’s worried.”

Eddie absently pushed the remaining food around his plate. _Here it is,_ he thought. _Back to real life. Analyzing risks, my daily commute in mind-numbing traffic, and...Myra. Back to Myra. I’m married—have been married, for a long time. I almost forgot._ He had so much to remember the past few days, he had damn near forgotten all the time in between. He glanced at Richie. He was sitting directly across from him, attention directed at his food, too. Probably thinking about his shitty comedy shows and the shitty writing and the shitty, shitty monotony of it all. Everyone else seemed to be thinking the same thing—about their lives, the ones that they had put on hold, the ones they damn near forgot about, too.

“I’m getting a divorce,” Bev blurted. They all looked up at that. “I called my lawyer this morning. Tom—he was not a good man. It seems I...I married my father.” She scoffed, as everyone quietly remembered the bruises she never talked about in their adolescence. _Don’t worry, Bev, it happens. I seem to have married my mother, too._ He felt sick as he remembered Myra’s ear-splitting wails, the color coded pills, and their overstuffed medicine cabinet. That wasn’t fair, though—she wasn’t a bad woman.

“Bev and I are leaving tomorrow, too,” Ben said. “We’re going to California. To spend some time on the coast.”

Mike cleared his throat. “I think I’m gonna head down to Florida—my work here...it’s done. I’ve always wanted to travel. I’ve never really gotten the chance to.”

“And we thank you for your service, good sah!” Richie commented in another one of his stupid accents and clapped him as well as he could on the back in the booth they were all squeezed into.

Mike smiled. “Someone had to do it. It was always supposed to be me, I think.”

“Do you think we’ll forget again?” Bev asked.

Mike shrugged, and Eddie’s stomach fell into his shoes. “I don’t know. I don’t...I don’t think so. I think the reason we didn’t remember before...because if we had...like Stan...we might not have had it in us to come back.”

A not entirely uncomfortable silence fell between the six of them. “I guess, I’ll go back to New York. I’m married, still,” Eddie said, though his heart wasn’t in it. These people were his heart. He loved Myra, sure. But did he love her like he loved the people sitting around him, now? Had he ever loved _anyone_ like he loved the Losers? He mourned the loss of those years—the loss of knowing what I felt like to be a part of a whole. He swore to himself that he’d never forget again.

“Yeah, mummy’s probably worried about you,” Richie said, crossing his arms. There was a bitterness in his voice, one that felt like nails on a chalkboard to Eddie’s ears.

“Beep beep,” Bill said, giving Richie a _look_. A tenseness settled between Eddie and Richie. Eddie tried to catch his eye but he refused to meet his gaze. Richie hadn’t say what he was planning to do next. Eddie figured he didn’t know—or maybe he did, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to tell them. The server dropped off their check and Ben dropped his Amex on the tray. Eddie guessed all of them, except Mikey, had done pretty well for themselves. Mike was the one assigned by circumstance to contain the mess the rest of them had subconsciously left behind.

**********

“What the fuck, man?” Eddie asked when they got inside Richie’s flashy, red sports car (typical).

“Fuck off,” Richie said, facing forward as the engine purred to life.

“No, I—I won’t!” Eddie said. “You’ve been acting weird all morning. Where are you going next? You’re the only one that didn’t fucking talk about it.”

“So what? Why do we have to talk about it?” He glanced over his shoulder as he pulled out of the parking spot. He flipped his blinker on in the direction of the Townhouse as he pulled the car to the edge of the parking lot. “It doesn’t fucking matter. This,” he gestured frantically between them, foot still on the break, something like terror in his eyes. “Is the only thing that ever mattered.”

Eddie blinked at him. “What does that mean?”

Richie changed the direction of his turn signal with a huff. “Since you’re so goddamn worried about it, I’ll show you.”

**********

Richie killed the engine and got out of the car. He hadn’t said a word during their drive. They were at the Kissing Bridge. Eddie wondered if the kids still called it that. They probably did. Richie had already reached the railing by the time Eddie even opened his door. He was looking down—but not at the water. He had a pocketknife in his hand and he was working away at something. Eddie strode up next to him.

There was a faded etching that Richie was scarring back into the wood of the railing. “R...plus...E,” Eddie read aloud. “What the fuck is this?

Eddie searched the rich bank of memories that had flooded back and tried to remember some girl they went to school with back in the day. _Elizabeth, Emily...Elaine?_

“I don’t—I can’t remember what the ‘E’ is for. What was her name?” Eddie asked. His exasperation was rising like a wave. _Why won’t he just fucking _talk_ to me?_

“There was no ‘her’, you dipshit,” Richie said quietly, making quick work of the heart. “There never has been.”

It seemed there was something digging at the periphery of his memory, something on the tip of his tongue. He sorted through the sloppily put-back-together filing cabinets of his mind and came up blank. Was he really as stupid as Richie always joked?

Richie looked up and put the pocket knife away, leaned against the railing, and stared out over the rushing water. “This is when it happened. When I woke up,” Richie said. Eddie leaned on the railing next to him, studying his face carefully. “From the Deadlights, I mean. I carved that when I was thirteen. Henry Bowers...I was so _angry_.” Richie shook his head. “I was in an arcade and there was this kid there. He was a little older than me and I guess...I guess he was related to Henry. We were just playing video games and—“ Richie sniffed. Eddie’s senses were tingling with every word. “He said some shitty things to me when he saw that Henry was there, and they ganged up on me. I ran, and I came here, and I made this. Because it was something that they couldn’t take away from me—no one knew. I guess I forgot about it not long after, too. And—I came back. The day after the battle—the first time I lived through it.” Richie looked at him with suddenly red-rimmed eyes and Eddie’s heart almost broke and he didn’t know why. Not yet. “And you weren’t here. You fucking died, and all I was left with was this stupid pocketknife and this stupid bridge and a mouthful of things I never said. Which is funny, in a shitty, ironic way, because I never shut the fuck up.”

Eddie finally filled in the blank before Richie said what came next. “I was in love with you, asshole.” The words seemed to echo inside of his head, bouncing off the walls in a symphony of emotion he couldn’t yet process. _In love with you, love, love, love._ “I don’t know when it happened. Maybe it all started as a joke—I don’t know. But by the time I—I did this, it wasn’t. And then I forgot you.” _E is for Eddie._ “There was never anyone else, and I never knew why. Until I started to remember. And then it was too late. But not—not this time.” Richie searched his face for some sort of emotion and Eddie supposed he came up blank because he looked back over the Kenduskeag.

Eddie was speechless, so Richie continued. “I don’t expect you to say anything. I just wanted—I needed to tell you. Because it’s...it’s the only thing that ever mattered, and I didn’t even remember.” He shook his head incredulously and closed his eyes in a wince, covering his face with his hands, elbows propped on the railing, hiding the carving from Eddie’s line of sight. “I can’t fucking believe I forgot you.”

Eddie pulled his arms away from his face, holding Richie’s hands in his, and looked down at the sloppy handiwork of the sloppy child he had just recently remembered, made new by the sloppy adult he was coming to know. He reached out and touched it. _Poor Richie,_ he thought. _He never told me._

Richie started crying in earnest, then. Eddie had never known Richie to be a crier—but it seemed he never knew a lot about Richie after all. Eddie held him, and put a hand on the back of his head. He was shaking. Richie held him back.

“You don’t have to love me back, Eds. I just—I needed you to know. And I need you to know that...it’s still the same. I still—“ Eddie could feel him choke back the words that were about to tumble out. “I still feel the same, and I’m so...grateful I got the chance to tell you, you fuckwit.”

“Rich...” Eddie said. He pulled back to look at his old friend’s face. He looked absolutely _ruined_. His hair was a mess, his glasses were fogged up from the heat of the blush blooming on his cheeks, and his chin looked scruffy as all hell. Eddie thought he’d never seen a person look so beautiful—broken, broken just like the rest of them, damaged, abused, hurt—but so, _so_ fucking beautiful. Richie opened his mouth to say something—to apologize, probably, but Eddie didn’t want to give him the chance. Richie didn’t need to apologize. He should never have to apologize again, Eddie thought. He closed the distance between them and pressed their lips together. In the pleasant Maine sun, a gentle autumn breeze ruffling their hair, and the sound of the river bubbling blissfully unaware below their feet, Eddie Kaspbrak and Richie Tozier kissed—something that, both of them thought, should have happened a long time ago.

**Author's Note:**

> Next work in the series picks up immediately where this one leaves off!


End file.
